Archive - December 2005December 13, 2005: "Dead Car Batteries and Program Notes" December 1, 2005: "Into the Underground Catacombs of Yale's School of Music" December 13, 2005: "Dead Car Batteries and Program Notes" As I've been wont to offer both solicited and unsolicited advice in this journal, I hope no one will think it presumptuous of me to begin this entry with a recipe for pure wintertide joy that I heartily recommend to all—even the little tots, as long as they've got a parent handy: 1) At the conclusion of your trip to the grocery store, leave the driver-side door slightly ajar, just enough so that the little safety light kicks in and starts to drain the battery. 2) Usually, this form of recreation is most enjoyable just after weekend-long snowstorm is glazed over with freezing rain. I mean, if you can hack that. 3) Take special care to park with your hood against a fence, ensuring that it will be well-nigh impossible to open your hood and connect jumper cables in the inevitable event that your battery goes completely dead. 4) Make sure to stow both your jumper cables and the makeshift dowel rod in your trunk, which in cold weather can only be opened with an electronically-operated release under the dash. 5) If you're not enjoying yourself quite enough just yet, you might try breaking your ice-scraper while trying to free the hood from forty pounds of ice-covered snow, or even break one of your windshield wipers in two. It's common knowledge that engaging in both of these dalliances in one outing, while somewhat indulgent, is a surefire pick-me-up that can only be augmented by working in utter darkness. You'll have to let me know how this works out for you; I wouldn't really know, I've never tried it…. In addition to these and other cold weather high jinks, I've been working on that revised orchestra version of “Black Bend”. This process involves me making an excessive amount of print-outs and then catching my own errors while simultaneously creating new ones, which as one might imagine is a time-consuming but ultimately rewarding experience if one is especially thorough/stubborn. Here's a shot of the first page—the colors have been changed to make my markings more visible, but unfortunately the notes have not been changed to protect the innocent:
Speaking of “Black Bend”, I've just received a real whiz-bang performance recording of the original quartet version from Brave New Works, who featured the piece on several concerts during their recent tour. Brave New Works is a Michigan-based ensemble with a varied core group of players who have succeed in presenting a dazzling range of recent repertoire with a degree of panache and technical brilliance seldom heard in the new music circuit. This is by far my favorite recording of this version of “Black Bend” to date, and I thought it might be interesting to post this alongside the premiere recording that's been up on this site for a while already—you can listen to it by going to the sidebar on the right, or else by closing your eyes and randomly clicking while you feverishly scroll up and down. The fact that this performance came off so well (or even came off at all!) is especially noteworthy in that I have never actually met any of the players nor attended any of their rehearsals or concerts. This has happened with a few other ensembles and I have to admit that while it's always intriguing to hear other minds connect with one's musical ideas as I've written them without any additional input on my part, there's part of the whole experience that tends to make my stomach curdle. Not so with the Brave New Works recording, which for me struck a balance between the sweet lyricism and technical potential of a more classical string sound and the grittier/sloppier aspects of blues playing. I think that one of the main challenges of the piece for the performers rests squarely on this issue of taste—namely, what should the ratio between the two playing styles be, and specifically, what kinds of musical events and gestures should receive the brunt of each? I can't tell you enough how many groups try to either soften the piece into a nice classical mold or else ape the blues idiom with little regard for the capabilities of the string quartet, and the BNW ensemble completely surmounted these challenges and surpassed my expectations. I hope that you'll all appreciate this recording as much as I did! To continue the hodgepodge theme of this week's entry, I'd like to offer up my program notes for the Kronos piece followed by a few comments on the nature of program note writing. The numbers in brackets aren't part of the actual notes; I'm just using them as a handy way to refer to specific sentences without quoting and re-quoting ad nauseum: There's a fascinating disconnect between the tough swagger of many early blues lyrics and the underlying subtext of vulnerability, tenderness, and grief. Often, a superficial statement of machismo can shelter a fragile interior flawed with sadness; likewise, sometimes a veneer of slick, stylized pathos conceals the devastation of a violent, brooding core. This pronounced schism lends interest and depth to an otherwise straightforward genre, and the way in which the slight crack of imperfection can grow to become a portal into private darkness continues to engage me each time one of those old records is spun [1]. I've sought to develop this musical stance in "Love Bleeds Radiant," a work informed by my experience as an electric guitarist as much as my background as a classically-trained violinist. The piece betrays my affection for the subtle lyricism and bittersweet flavor of the blues even as it embraces a more traditional sense of developmental logic; in addition, amplification, distortion, and other live electronics have been utilized in order to evoke the gritty, raw emotion that permeates the language of the blues. The piece opens with the sounds of an old 78 RPM recording, replete with static pops and the hiss of surface noise—this all recorded earlier by the Kronos Quartet and sonically manipulated by myself [2]. This warping and slow (but inexorable) degeneration of sound into pure noise resurfaces in various guises throughout the piece and in this sense forms a musical metaphor from which the main part of the piece emerges [3]. This central section is marked by the entrance of the live quartet, which reacts musically and emotionally to the recording, extracting the contradictory strands of tenderness and bombast and reconciling them over a broad narrative. The initial tune, which I've written in reference to (more than in imitation of) actual blues recordings, expresses its tensions on several levels that must be dealt with, like a painful memory, by the live quartet before reconciliation can be achieved. On the tonal level, the tension between the notes C and C-sharp (and their respective key areas) shapes an ascent and descent supporting a central climax, and the themes of recognition, conflict, and—perhaps—resolution shape the often chaotic and irrational outbursts into a larger dramatic arc. Although the song I've based the piece upon is, of course, wordless, I can't help imagining that through its own muteness the music sings of a terrible and resplendent love: a love that burns wild without fading, searches ardently without ceasing, and—ultimately—one that outshines its own darkness [4]. Most gracious thanks go out to both Villa Montalvo and Copland House for more than a few moments of precious, piercing solitude [5]. Dan Visconti's "Love Bleeds Radiant" was commissioned for the Kronos Quartet as part of the Kronos: Under 30 Project/#3 by The Hopkins Center at Dartmouth College. Additional support was provided by the Angel Stoyanof Commission Fund, The James Irvine Foundation, the Margaret E. Lyon Trust, The William and Flora Hewlett Foundation, the Fleishhacker Foundation, the American Music Center, and the Kronos Performing Arts Association [6]. Ah. Sure feels good to have those in the bag! It took me quite a bit of time for those few paragraphs, not an inordinate amount of time but probably more than most people would expect…and although they're maybe not the best writing I've produced I'm happy with how they work and what they convey about the music. But what is the purpose of program notes in the first place? What is their function and how do they fit into the larger, concert-going experience? To begin with, a comparison with pop or rock concerts might be useful. Why aren't program notes necessary for these venues? Well, for one, because the audience has an assumed familiarity with the material—even nostalgia acts like the Stones aside, no one puts down the exorbitant cost of concert tickets these days to hear something they're not sure if they're into. And although I've elsewhere praised adventurous listening, plopping down sixty bucks and standing in the rain next to smack-peddler, stinky roadie, or Marvin Hamlisch (that's a shout-out for you more subdued types) for 6-7 hours is hardly a risk worth taking—at least most of the time! In addition, most rock and pop concerts are less stodgy than classical ones and feature more interaction with the audience, often obviating the need for program notes with spoken introductions—and to their credit, the Kronos Quartet has made this kind of audience interaction a staple of the group's own concert experience and in my opinion taken a big step toward making quartet concerts fun again! But finally, and perhaps most telling of all, remains the fact that the idea of music as something which requires interpretation is largely absent from the pop world. Clearly, the idea that one's experience can be enriched by interpretation is at home in both types of musical experiences, but it's a peculiar highbrow conceit that the music should beg to be interpreted or to some degree culminate in its interpretation rather than the weight of the music's own visceral experience. Lest this whole discussion become too Derridean, suffice it to say that the uses and meanings of program notes are far from clear. Within the classical realm, there are many approaches to program note writing, each with its own assumptions. Some notes, for example, are of the “then comes the second theme inverted in the quartofagotto” variety, and the assumption there is that people want and/or require some kind of “road map” to the composition. The problem with this approach is that while it might even be possible to “know” the external features of a piece of music as a section of terrain, such superficial knowledge is not usually very penetrating. So another approach is to go right for this “inner mystery” with some florid, purple prose, often by employing the words “diaphanous” and “cerulean”. The problem with this approach is that it makes explicit the mystery it seeks to elucidate, and thus limits what it supposes to throw wide open. If you're not down with either of these approaches there are probably two options left: bare bones-ing it (just the facts, ma'am: when it was written and for whom) or the infamous “dodge-em' two-step”—by which I mean ranting about something political, literary, or philosophical in nature that is not obviously connected with the appreciation of the music. Practically, I often end up using a variety of these approaches when they seem to fit, but I often find it useful to reflect on my own program note-reading habits and subsume this mélange under some kind of unifying intention. I, for my own sake, don't like to read notes until after the concert as I'm at heart very impressionable and find my experience with the music easily sullied by hype and noise; then again, I'm a composer and not representative of my general audience. What might they want, and what can I give them in return for their time, money, and patience? Context, for one thing. I'm accountable for the very basic question of why I wrote the piece in the first place, and people have a right to know that. Another rule of thumb I try to go by is that no one should have to google the piece to find out basic information about it—when it was written and under what circumstances, who helped fund it, etc. But most importantly, I think I can describe my intentions as something separate from the music itself and provide an inroad for the listener's own interpretation of the piece. This often requires me to skirt the difficult lined between the “chalk outlines” and “cerulean” approaches described above, and I'll now try to point out a few parts of my notes that reflect this issue: [1] is all context, with some flowery language thrown in for good measure. I haven't even begun to talk about my piece yet, but by generating some insight into what I find special with a certain other kind of musical experience I'm whetting the listener's, er, ears for another. There's also the “me” element in the final sentence, and I was hoping that the idea of the composer as a flesh-and-blood being who actually goes through the physical motions of listening to music might strike, ooh, a chord. By contrast, [2] is all chalk outlines, a play-by-play of how the piece opens. Although I haven't given away my full hand of secrets in the notes, describing the opening is a nice invitation to experiencing the rest of the piece. In addition, the somewhat complicated electronic rigging is sure to provoke some questions, questions I'd rather not have swimming around in the listener's head during the remaining 12 minutes to the exclusion of anything to do with the actual music. [3] is a real hybrid of approaches, as well as an injunction; literally a description of what is to come, it also enjoins the listener to listen for him/herself but on a specific level, which helps the listener focus on first hearing. [4] is the real wanking paragraph, the one that almost shouts “cerulean!” and has little to do with the actual progression of the music. But I decided to include it as it fulfills several functions. First, it's speculative, not interpretive, just a perhaps-maybe-so spark to provoke some kind of reaction. The passage also makes the listener aware that there even exists a problem or mystery to be dealt with: namely, the obvious anomaly of the “song-without-words.” And finally, it refers back to and focuses the title with the information gleaned from the preceding paragraphs and refers as well to a certain general characteristic of the music at large. [5] is the not-completely-necessary-but-deserved thanks that also provide information on where I wrote a good deal of the piece. I tried to summarize the specific nature of the effect of these organizations's generosity and not just say “hey, thanks, man, thanks for the kicks.” [6] is the obligatory and carefully-worded thanks, whose labyrinthine density I thought best to leave untouched for legal reasons (read: I didn't write it, which is why it's in italics). Although I certainly wanted to thank the funders, the clunky legalese fits kind of unhappily with my writing style, and I decided to separate it wholesale from the rest of the note like that black sheep Uncle Reginald who defected in Hanoi and we never talk about, no, not ever. This preserves the unity of style within the note-proper and also benefits from the addition of a new voice, a third-person that brings the listener out of my head and back into the room. So there you have it, the many considerations that go into composing (and I do not use the word lightly) a program note. Next week we'll have another round of Q&A, so pop your questions to the Hop as fast as your little digits can digitize your queries. Oh, and as a special treat, the Casio will be answering one of your questions, mainly on the basis of whatever will end up being the funniest. Cheers! [Back to Top]
December 1, 2005: "Into the Underground Catacombs of Yale's School of Music" It's been a helluva week-and-a-half, my little buckaroos, what with traveling to the folks' house in Chicago, catching up with school, cleaning up an old piece, and planning a new one—as well working on a couple last things in the Kronos piece saga! Before celebrating our national origin myth (ahem Thanksgiving) I had a chance to get the bulk of the raw material down for the recorded portion of the piece. This involved a trip to use the Yale Center for Studies in Music Technology (CSMT), which is something of a dungeon-like environment. Speaking of, I kind of slipped underneath the whole Harry Potter craze, but I'd just like to bring up that Yale is totally Hogwarts—and not just the main buildings like you'd expect but even this 10-story building where I occasionally can be found loping slowly along on a treadmill or hoisting very tender poundage:
I should mention that any school with the bold resolve to have more portcullises than normal, functional doorways has already ingratiated itself with me—here here, Yale! Now I shall reveal the underground catacombs of the School of Music, which look much different:
So although I haven't gotten the recording of my “tune” from the quartet at this point, I did have some takes of some wild, hellish passages that I was hoping to shape into part of the climax. To begin with, I layered and spliced these fragments together to create a real palpable mass of sound. This I accomplished fairly well on my own, but as I was new to the CSMT setup I needed help from someone in the know…someone undeniably hip yet highly competent…someone who could walk the walk and talk the talk of electronic paraphernalia but who still had a composer's ear for musicality. In other words, I needed Missy Mazzoli, whose musical theme would begin playing right now if all were right in this world. Missy is a composer, performer, and improviser thoroughly versed in current technology yet reluctant to let it run away with her sensibilities—in other words, just the person I needed to show me how to use a vast battery of equipment to get the sound I was looking for! Missy and her tunes have been appearing recently on the bi-coastal Free Speech Zone tour, which has been presenting evenings of politically-charged music and film as well as avoiding the horrifying wasteland of Middle America, both quite successfully. I was not involved in this tour in any way other than to pedal inexpensive trinkets and bounce irascible rowdies such as this man, but I wanted to talk it up a bit in the ol' blog since y'all should check the thing out, 'k? Incidentally, I have just been issued a ticket by the Colloquialism Police, who regretfully inform me that I've used altogether too many ornamental apostrophes in the previous sentence. Such are the grave errors of judgment one suffers when spending hours tweaking music that sounds like this: Great Odin's raven! That's the music I was putzing around with at CSMT, of course. I won't put the final version out just yet, but I thought it might be instructive to list the discrete steps involved; keep in mind that steps 1-3 were polished off before the hard-core work even began: 1) Manipulate levels of gain and feedback on original recording 2) Explode stereo mix into quad and layer canonically 3) Manipulate pacing with some secret splices 4) Add reverb 5) Add warbling flanger effect on end of segment 6) Draw in velocities for flanger 7) Record static/fuzz sounds and apply liberally 8) Record deranged-sounding Hammond, preserving dry room Phew. These might not make much sense until I unveil the ungainly thing, but my point is that even messing around with sounds in a way that seems to run rampant with electronics needs to be focused and goal-oriented in order to be clear and expressive. Even details like room sound can matter a lot, since a wet room like a bathroom or Yale's accursed Woolsey Hall pads the sound and makes it feel far away while a dry, crisp sound that preserves mechanical noise gets kind of a more in-your-face effect. Just as a landscape painter strives to create a feeling of space and depth on a 2-dimensional canvas, great pop producers like George Martin and Phil Spector labored to create a feeling of acoustical depth with a foreground, middle ground, and background—just listen to the hot, dry vocals on “Eleanor Rigby” against the pad of strings and you'll hear what I mean. This sense of depth seems to be utterly lacking in most pop recordings of today, in which attainting maximum volume for as long as possible seems to have become a goal not far removed from the incessant whine of a 3-year-old's temper tantrum. So my remaining tasks on the piece include making parts with page turns that don't suck, recording and manipulating the “tune”, and also writing some program notes. This last task I find the most difficult, as program notes have become little more than an opportunity to showboat/self-deprecate and it'll be difficult setting both tendencies aside while I attempt to focus my thoughts. I'll post them here next week with a little talk about clear musical writing (not ultra-lax blog-ese) and how it can help an audience appreciate a new work if done properly. On a final note, I took a trip to Mystic two weekends ago, into what I've come to refer to as “ye wildes of Connecticut”—the reason being New Haven's cultural attachment to New York and generally more cosmopolitan pretensions than its neighboring hamlets. The trip was part of my effort to bury pieces of the Casio in unmarked graves across the country, a task which I began upon completion of the Kronos piece and which nags and persists at my conscience to this very day. I look kind of out-of-it and unreasonably jolly in these (especially the second one with my limp wrists and all), but I had such a good time that I wanted to savor a couple moments on this here beach. It's nice to be outdoors when everything's in flux, and experiencing that nice long plunge into winter is one of the few condolences for next week's shoddy ice-storms….
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